Linguistics
by MrsTater
Summary: SpockxUhura: This relationship isn't easy for him, and this topic must be one of the most uncomfortable aspects for even a half-Vulcan to broach. It probably wasn't the most logical of choices to tease him about the Human struggle for self-expression.


_A/N: Inspired by that lovely moment in the movie when Spock asks Kirk to "Tell Lieutenant Uhura..." This fic picks up after Spock's return to the __Enterprise. It's also my first __Star Trek fic, so please be kind to a newbie. :) Feedback welcomed and much appreciated! Many thanks to **Jncar** for her Spocktacular beta work. Oh, and bonus points to anyone who spots the Jane Austen reference.

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**Linguistics**

Spock greets you with a light kiss when he opens his cabin door. With a single slight gesture of his hand, he invites you inside and indicates for you to be seated on a low white leather couch.

The quarters, more generous than yours, are dimly lit by candles on shelves and side tables, which burn with the scent of some herb or flower that you know no longer exists. You must marshal every last reserve of your willpower not to weep at this display of grief more poignant than the wails of loss and screams of rage his Vulcan control restrains. The sniffle you can't suppress is, thankfully, stifled by the trickle of wine being poured into a long-stemmed glass, which Spock places on the coffee table before you.

He stoppers the bottle and puts it away in a black-lacquered cabinet without pouring a glass for himself, as usual. Not as usual, he doesn't join you on the couch for your drink. Instead, he remains standing on the opposite side of the coffee table from you, and, half-cloaked in shadow, clasps his hands behind his back. Though your former teacher, Spock regards you like a schoolboy about to recite a vastly complicated lesson.

"Humans," he says, "are accustomed to making declarations to each other."

"Yes..." You drag out the monosyllable, pitching it upward as though asking a question rather than stating a reply, hopeful about where Spock is going with this idea of _declarations_, and yet hesitant. You take a drink and add, "Since we're not blessed with telepathy we have to make do with telling each other how we feel. Pain in the ass, really."

Your eyes settle on his lips just in time to catch the fleeting upward curve at the corners. "I must confess that the prospect of finding suitable words to describe such nebulous things as emotions strikes me as a particularly daunting task. However, I do admire the ongoing Human pursuit of doing so."

"Our music and literature have benefited from it, anyway." Another sip of wine, and then you allow a measure of coyness to slip into your returning smile and tone of voice. "Even if it does make courtship a bit of an agony."

"Indeed."

But Spock's acknowledgment of your flirtation stops there. Though his eye contact does not waver from yours, his gaze turns inward, reflective. As the silence continues, you shift on the firm leather cushion beneath you, and one black polished fingernail traces the etching in the stem of your wine glass. This relationship isn't easy for him, you've known that from its tentative beginnings in his office at Starfleet, and this topic -- _declarations of emotions_ -- must be one of the most uncomfortable aspects for even a half-Vulcan to broach. It probably wasn't the most logical of choices to tease him about the Human struggle for self-expression.

"Recent events," Spock's voice breaks so evenly into your thoughts, like the _Enterprise _through space, that it doesn't immediately register that he actually spoke aloud, "have prompted me to reevaluate my decision not to exercise this facet of my Humanity and speak of some of my emotions."

Setting your empty wine glass on the coffee table, you cross your legs and give him a smile of encouragement. "And which emotions would those be?"

"Namely, regrets."

His voice, normally so level and measured, is rich with them. He turns away from you, paces to the cabinet with the wine, and looks for a moment at an abstract painting that seems to be a shifting wash of golden and orange hues due to the pair of tall tapers flickering beneath. His hands are still firmly clasped behind his back, his shoulders erect, but then his head bows in undeniable proof of the emotion of which he has just spoken.

"My mother was Human."

Your aural sensitivity doesn't miss the nanosecond of hesitation before Spock's use of the past tense verb, and your heart plummets to your stomach with guilt that, with all Spock has been through, you could be so self-absorbed as to think this was all about you.

"Until I realized that I will never speak to her again," he continues, "I never considered that she might have required more Human expressions from me and my fath--"

He catches himself, and you know that he does so because to speculate about the emotions of another is a gross invasion of privacy. Still, it does not stop you from wondering whether Sarek, full Vulcan, is alone right now with similar regrets about his Human wife.

"Vulcan families are closely knit and loving," Spock changes tacks, "albeit restrained, at least by Human standards. Mother was always free with her expressions of affection."

"Oh, Spock," you say, getting up, maneuvering around the coffee table to go to him. "I'm sure your mother knew you loved her." The words sound trite, and you cringe at having said them.

"Even so," Spock says, clearly uncomforted by the empty words, Vulcan stoicism notwithstanding, "I regret not having put my feelings into words. I am certain she would have liked to hear them even if she did not need to."

His warm fingers curl around yours as he turns to you once more, dark eyes seeking yours, more intense than usual as they reflect the dancing tips of flame of the candlesticks beside him. "And when I found myself faced with the extreme probability of my own imminent death in destroying the _Narada_, I regretted having made the same mistake with you."

Your heart gives a sharp pump. _You _were first in Spock's thoughts in that moment of courageous self-sacrifice.

"I was going to ask the captain to tell you that I..." His Adam's apple bobs in his long, pale throat. "But he would not allow me to entertain the thought that I would not live to tell you myself..."

In the pause, it is now laughter against which you battle. Not that Spock's desperation is amusing, nor the depth of his feelings for you humorous...But that _he _could be willing to bare his soul to James T. Kirk... You press your lips together and concentrate on how sweet that is...and nearly laugh again at how Spock would take being called sweet.

Mostly you just want to hear him say to you what he almost said to Kirk even though you don't really need to, because, well, you're only Human. So you squeeze Spock's hand in encouragement, and he obliges.

Sort of.

"I do not know what I would have asked the captain to tell you," he says in that way you have come to know as wry. "That is why I have never made you a declaration of my feelings. In no language can I find an adequate vocabulary to convey what I feel for you."

A knot lodges in your throat, and your smile paralyzes your lips, but somehow you manage to speak.

"I thought _I _was the xenolinguistics expert here."

Though the angled left eyebrow arches, Spock asks, quite seriously, "Does it not seem to you that Humans perhaps trivialize their emotions by assigning words to them?"

Of course in your study of languages you have encountered the problem of cultural ideas and colloquialisms becoming lost in translation. Until now, you have never made that connection with the language of the heart. Perhaps if you had more relationship experience, you would know more about the inadequacy of words. As it is, this may well explain why you have never felt anything lacking in _this _relationship, in regard to what Spock has or has not said.

Twining your fingers through his, you bring your joined hands to rest against your chest above your rapidly beating heart. "In other words, if you felt less for me, you could talk about it more?"

You know your logic pleases him because his other hand settles lightly on your hip. "Nyota," he murmurs, and buries his face in the curve of your neck, lips brushing your skin as your own graze the lobe of his pointed ear.

"I think you've found a vocabulary to express your feelings more than adequately."

The End


End file.
